


with the moon keeping watch over me

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: ....three. halbarad elladan and elrohir are the only three, Gen, a lot of people don't die bc i say so, halbarad and the elves are the only two u don't have to worry about lol, hey guess who got attached to all the rangers in book three, many spoilers for the first half of vol3, mostly following the lotro plot, oh god there's so many rangers, that i can't use my heal or res skills on npcs with plot-ordered deaths, titles are hard and also bullshit so sorry fam, with increasing amounts of canon divergence as i get more and more upset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: You have spent a long time now in the company of rangers throughout the north. Now you travel south into danger with the Grey Company.alternately titled: i didn't spend weeks of actual time dropping the rk death ward on every random player i ran into for the class deed only to have it be functionally useless when it comes to npcs bc Plot
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. rivendell to isengard

**Author's Note:**

> [title note i probably should have added earlier- borrowed from 'on my way' by phil collins. from the brother bear soundtrack]
> 
> hey this is the first one i wrote for this series! i was sad about rangers after 'troubled dreams' and. yeah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited the very beginning a little now that 'beacons' is up

You aren’t sure if it is blessing or burden when Elrond sends for you once more, after your adventures in Khazad-dûm. The Grey Company- a summons for the Dúnedain scattered through the wilds of the north. After all this time wandering, you know their paths nearly as well as one of their own, and so you are the one sent after them. Many of them are surprised to see you again, and they greet you with smiles that quickly fade to grimness as they listen to your news. They know their duties and they set their affairs in order, though you know them now enough to see their conflict. 

Halros is the worst. You see true anguish in his eyes as he faces the reality of leaving the Shire behind. He turns to you as if you have the power to make his decision an easy one, and you wish you did, but you know that whether he leaves or stays, he will feel that he made the wrong choice, all the more so if great misfortune falls on either the Shire or the Grey Company in his absence. The Grey Company is riding into war- you do not doubt that they will find their share of troubles. Halros asks for your counsel, and you watch the fields and do not answer for a long time. You want to know that there will still be something green to come back to, after all is said and done. You want, selfishly, to know that at least one friend is safe. You yourself have already resolved to accompany the Dúnedain south, if they will have you. You tell Halros that if his heart has truly come to rest in the Shire, it could only serve to pain him if he left it. There is sharp relief mixed with guilt in his face as he accepts your advice and settles by the fire. You stay in his camp that night and depart for Esteldín with the dawn.

Acquaintances old and new gather in Imladris and together you set out for Hollin. Elladan and Elrohir join the company, and your presence makes three elves. The rest are Dúnedain all. The pass to the Doors of Durin and the Watcher's pool is a dark hole in the wall of the mountains and you pass it by. 

Halbarad’s scheme with the Bebarahir rings makes too much sense and you wish it didn’t. You itch to take one yourself, to share the danger, but you know that if you were to be caught with one it would throw the entire purpose of the decoys. You have no love for the ring-forges of Mirobel- long have they been a source of pain, and for far more than just you. You are beyond glad to put them behind you once more.

The crossing into Enedwaith goes smoothly, and you dare to hope that the Grey Company will make it through unharmed. A foolish hope, perhaps, but hope is in your name and in your heart and you will not give it up just yet.

There is something _wrong_ about Zudrugund, and you cannot place it even after pulling Nár’s story from the corners of the half-ruined library. Even the corpse of the gwiber and Wadu’s story do little to appease or explain the unease growing in you. The letters from this Ergothorn are too convenient and you all know it, but if there is any truth to them the Grey Company cannot afford to ignore them.

The bad feeling is worse on the Forsaken Road, though you discount much of it as the otherworldly dread you have come to expect from the haunts of long-dead spirits. You are on edge, and you can see the same tension in the Dúnedain that accompany you, but all your alertness is for naught. You stand beside Candaith as he holds aloft his Bebarahir and demands the Oathbreakers’ aid, and for just a moment, you believe it might work.

But Britou strikes Candaith down, and you are alone in the depths against the Dead Who Do Not Rest, and no matter how you try you cannot get close enough to Candaith to press your most powerful rune to still-warm flesh. Britou’s laughter echoes on the stone walls and In desperation, you throw the carved stone towards Candaith’s body, hoping the power you infused it with will last long enough to save him. The Dead pursue you as you flee and your fire barely touches them. You slow only long enough to take Radanir’s hand and pull him with you with all your strength. Britou appears from the depths and laughs when Radanir protests that you must wait for Candaith. You pull harder until he follows you back into the daylight.

You clench your hands to keep them from shaking when Halbarad questions the survivors, once you stumble back to Lhanuch bloodied and pale. You are the only one to witness the cause of the Dead’s sudden attack, and when you tell the others of Candaith’s attempt at deception you can see the understanding dawn on them. Saeradan shakes his head and calls Candaith a fool, but his voice is soft and his eyes are bright with tears.

You leave the camp outside Lhanuch and enter the Uch-lûth’s home just long enough to trade coin for drink. Nona is waiting in the shade of a wind-bent tree. She sees the drink and the look in your eyes and nods to you.

“It went poorly, then.” Your teeth clench and you look away. “Who was lost?”

She ignores the harshness in your answer and idly traces the designs on the hilt of her brother’s sword. “I am sorry. May his memory guide you.”

You stay at the fringes of the grove of trees where the Grey Company has made their camp, perched on a boulder watching the plains. Radanir is the one who finds you. You don’t note his presence until he is already speaking.

“Were you planning to share that?”

You weren’t, but you pass the drink to him anyway. He sits beside you on the rock and you watch the stars come out. After a time he begins to speak, telling the story of his first meeting with Candaith when they were both children in Esteldín. When he stops, you fill the silence with your own story, of nights trading old tales in the hills after the fall of Angmar.

“I heard tell that was the night you boiled away all the water in the night’s stew,” Saeradan says. You did not hear his approach either. Rangers. “What remained was so badly burned you had to replace the pot.”

You sputter indignantly and Saeradan’s smile is small but bright in the starlight. There is exactly one night that he could mean, and exactly one person who could have told him that story. “He swore he would tell no one!” Radanir laughs beside you, and Saeradan’s smile grows less sad. After a moment, you laugh too, because it is far better than crying. You wonder if Candaith might prefer this kind of memorial. You think he might.

The next morning Halbarad declares your time in this land is over. You make the long climb back to Zudrugund to retrieve Corunir alone. He has yet to be told of Candaith’s death, you realize, and you hesitate outside the doors to the dwarf-library. You start a small fire to stall and stare out across the rolling hills at the foot of the mountain. The sun sets and you come to a conclusion and a decision. The first is that, even if by the hand of the Valar Candaith managed to reach your runestone, he never would have made it out of the crypt alone. The Dead do not rest but Men must, and he would have been injured still and far outnumbered. You wish you hadn’t left him, for all you know you had no choice. The decision is that you will teach all who are willing to learn a basic healing rune.

You were taught long ago that rune-craft is a skill that must be slowly taught, to acclimate the mind and to commit to the study of the rune. The lives of Men are too short for most to learn safely, but you think that this one rune will be safe enough, so long as they don’t try anything more. The part of you that hopes thinks that this knowledge might one day save a friend. The other part, ruthlessly practical and maybe a bit broken, thinks that this rune is not powerful enough to save them from anything truly serious. You listen to the hope, because the other way lies despair, and that above all else you will not give in to.

Corunir will not leave the mountain without answers, and you listen, tired, as he questions Nár again. Saruman. The traitor Wizard. Of course. You pull Corunir away before his grief can turn fully to rage, and the long trek back down the mountain is uncomfortably silent. In the hills between the mountain and Lhanuch he accepts your offer of the rune, though he has not yet managed to power the stone by the time you return to the others.

You understand the need for secrecy that drives Halbarad to split the Grey Company for the passage into the heart of Dunland, but after all the lives lost on the Forsaken Road you would rather keep them all close. Not that your closeness did much for Candaith, or Lorniel or Tadan or any of the others, but still that part of your heart that hopes knows that you have protected many in your time, that these fallen are the exceptions and not the rule. You ride south with Prestadír and teach a dozen rangers how to carve a rune of healing, and by the time you reunite with the full Company in Tâl Methedras even Corunir has managed to activate it. Golodir refuses the rune, as do Amlan and Mincham and a handful of others, and though you don’t begrudge them the choice you wish they had the knowledge for themselves.

You like Tûr Morva. The people- most of them, at least- are pleasant enough to the Grey Company, and are eager to work with you. The city of the Hebog-lûth is proud and well-defended, and you learn as much from them as they do from you. Radanir bemoans his lot hauling ox-dung, and you laugh but take pity on him and swap tasks for a day. You find a sack of smooth stones suitable for rune-carving by your bedroll that night. There is also a suspicious number of sweet-smelling flowers that nearly manage to cover up the lingering scent of the oxen.

Things seem well in hand when you depart to scout the rest of Dunland. It is good to see Nona again. You still think the Grey Company would have been better for her presence on the trip south, and you gladly take her help now. The people of the Dunbog have a curious sense of humor, and you find yourself almost reluctant to leave, despite the overwhelming bogginess of the place. The Starkmoors and the mines of Carreglyn had been far less cheery.

Andreg joins you in the Gravenwood, and he surprises you with his gift for song. You more than once draw trouble to you, singing together in the trees, but every time after the first it is by design. You are glad you have learned the secrets to eating well on the road, because Andreg is a terrible cook. You have become rather skilled yourself, and you take no small measure of pride in your abilities. The incident with Candaith’s pot was a one-time occurrence. 

The horse-lords and their prince are a herald of war on a scale larger than anything you have seen thus far. You are courteous to them, but you have grown comfortable with the Dúnedain and Théodred’s presence has changed something. Politics, probably, you think with distaste. Théodred is a prince, if one far from home, and the Dúnedain are not overly inclined to obey a lord- even their own, at times. It helps nothing that the Rohirrim are uneasy in the Gravenwood, and disinclined to say anything even glancing favorable of the Dunlendings, even those with whom you have allied. 

You accompany Andreg to the Slade of Shadows before the return to Tûr Morva and the Falcons. There is a familiarity to the elhudan that flicker among the ancient trees, and it puts you at ease in a strange way that the massive black goats do not. The Tribunal of Shadows are not the first to attempt to harness spirits, and you expect they will not be the last. You are unprepared for Andreg’s desperate attack on the Tribunal’s cauldron. The Old Woman of the Mountain flees, wounded, and you run to Andreg’s side. He too is wounded, but not so badly that you cannot help him. The runestone is already in your hands, but he pushes you away. 

“The cost of defeating death is the life the living,” he chokes out between wet breaths. You are not ready to let another friend die in front of you and you push forward, but he finds enough strength to bat the runestone away. You growl in frustration and dig for another, but Andreg catches your hands and holds onto them. His grip is weak already, but you are as powerless to break his hold as you would be in chains. You hold him as he dies to stop the Tribunal, and then you dry your face and carry him back to the scout-camp where Saeradan and the others wait, because you have no other choice. At least you have the body this time. 

Andreg’s death is just the beginning. The Grey Company returns to Tûr Morva and scatters through the city to find what friends they made on their last visit. Lheu Brenin leads you to the prison-caves, and you remember the emissary of Saruman and the Brenin’s ideas of interrogation with distaste. Lothrandir joins you in the tunnels on a whim. The Brenin leads you to the emissary’s cell but falls back at the last, and the first hint of unease stirs in you. The emissary is dead- has been for some time now. Unease flares to worry then to panic, but it is far too late. You fight, of course, and so does Lothrandir, but you are outnumbered and surrounded in unfamiliar tunnels. You are bound and beaten and dragged away, and you sneer at the Falcons that are too ashamed of their treachery to meet your eyes.

\---

The journey to Nan Curunír is long, made all the more so by the abuses of your Hebog-lûth captors. Lothrandir takes the brunt of the physical torments and you heal him as much as you can, but your runestones and tools were taken, and a crude rune scratched with a fingernail into cracked wood is a poor substitute for a proper stone and chisel. Isengard looms before you, and you take a vicious satisfaction at the sight of the Falcon Clan nearly as uneasy as you are here in the heart of Saruman’s power, dominated by goblins and uruks and massive engines of war.

“I do not fear this place,” Lothrandir says, moving forward on his own two feet. You know it to be a lie, but you tell yourself the same lie and follow after him.

Too soon you are separated. The uruks overseeing your time as a ‘prisoner with a job’ taunt you, imagining out loud for your benefit the torments Lothrandir is surely enduring at the hands of the Old Man. You tune them out, but in the semi-dark of the corner in which you sleep, you wonder if their taunts are better or worse than the reality. You have not seen Lothrandir since your arrival, and neither have the other prisoners with whom you trade news and encouragement in hurried whispers. Lheu Brenin had intended that you be a gift to Saruman- you don’t think Lothrandir was ever part of the plan, until he invited himself to visit the imprisoned emissary with you. Why then is he the one taken, while you are set free to roam, even after your audience with the Wizard of Many Colors? You wonder if here, at least, the Bebarahir ring did its work as intended.

Time loses much of its meaning. Though you are for some strange reason trusted enough to wander almost as you will, you still have little opportunity to see the sky, and when you do make it above ground the air is choked with ash. In the depths, everything is cast in the same red-orange half-light and it is never silent. It is easy enough to find shards of metal sharp enough to carve with, and sections of the cavern and tunnels are walled in uneven shale that breaks off easily into flat, smooth sections. The stone is not strong, good for a handful of uses at most, but they are the best you will be able to find in Isengard and you hoard them, scrawling runes of healing and protection and lightning and secreting them into the folds of your prisoner rags. Morflak gifts you a longer shirt with fewer holes and even a pocket as some sort of reward. You are not sure how you accrued such favor in the uruk’s eyes, but you take what you can and hide more of your fragile runestones. You hope you are not being saved for some terrible purpose, but you are not altogether certain you aren’t.

Baldgar and Acca have clearly spent much time on their escape plan, and you grudgingly admit it might work. Everything you give these days, even credit, is grudging. Neither of the Men know anything of Lothrandir, and are quick to remind you that the tower of Orthanc itself is impenetrable for you, and that in all likelihood he is dead or broken already. You grit your teeth and follow through with their plan. The hard part of you, grown harder in what feels like months since Lheu Brenin’s betrayal, knows they are right. The other part, the part that hopes, the part that lies, the part that fights through fear, whispers that Lothrandir is strong, that he won’t stop fighting until you can save him. Hope is persistent and it is cunning, and at last the hard part admits that you can save him- but not alone. You must escape. If the rest of the Dúnedain still live, they can help you.

You spend several of your healing shales on the other prisoners you free and ignore the look Baldgar shoots you. You make your way into the light of day and send a prayer to the Valar to guide your steps, and to guard Lothrandir’s. It almost works, and as you face down Morflak with only a handful of ill-made rune-shales, there is a feral grin on your lips and lightning playing along your skin and you think this is as good a way as any to die. There is hissing not unlike a quenched blade, and a terrible explosion throws you into darkness.

\---

When you finally wake, you are far from Isengard. Baldgar is crumpled beside you, barely breathing. The night is dark, and the air smells of trees and earth. The Gravenwood. You are close, you think, to the scout-camp that is both your destination and Baldgar’s. He tells you not to weep with shallow breaths, but he need not have worried- at least one of your healing shales is unbroken, and it is enough to get Baldgar back on his feet until you reach the camp.

You would not have wept for him even if they had all been splintered, but you don’t tell him this. You would have given him the respect and the proper ending expected of a Rider of Rohan, but you have not known this Man long or well enough to consider him a friend. You think, maybe, that you should feel more at the thought of his death, but forefront in your mind is the need for safety coupled with a heavy, all-encompassing exhaustion that makes every step feel like it is taken through knee-high water. Beneath that is worry for the rest of the Grey Company, and regret for leaving Isengard without Lothrandir. There is no room in you to add another sorrow. The Slade of Shadows is quiet and nothing emerges to stop you, but it feels as if Andreg’s shade follows you out of the trees, just beyond sight. At least you managed to save this one, you think, and shoot a glance at Baldgar. You mark a familiar boulder and limp your way back to the scout-camp with Baldgar at your side.

The camp guards nearly cut you down as spies before one of them recognizes Baldgar and rushes forward with a cry to embrace him. Baldgar is quickly led away and a figure in browns and greys and greens appears at the commotion. You nearly weep with relief to see Saeradan alive and well. He offers his arm and you take his support gladly. You are seated with Baldgar by the fire and plied with food and drink, more than you have seen in weeks, and of far higher quality, for all they are stale trail rations and water that has sat too long in its waterskin. You are nearly asleep where you sit, with Saeradan close beside you. You list sideways and he does not protest when you come to a rest against his shoulder. It is increasingly difficult to string words together, and you think you might slip into Sindarin once or twice, but you manage to ask about the others. The situation is dark: Braigiar is dead, and many others besides. Radanir escaped but is injured. The rest are still captives under Tûr Morva. You hardly dare to ask, but Lothrandir has not escaped Isengard to Saeradan’s knowledge, and you have only empty apologies to offer by way of news. Saeradan hushes you and guides you into a tent where you curl into a bedroll and sleep for three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'keep lothrandir from doing anything reckless' is a bullshit quest objective because the only thing keeping Me from doing something reckless is the game's targeting and plot mechanics
> 
> zudrugund also creeps me out for. absolutely no reason
> 
> if you would like Candaith to be not dead, consider trying 'just past the edge of our fears' ch2!


	2. the rescue to troubled dreams

There is a pile of stones suitable for rune-craft by your head when you awake, and for a moment time slips and you are back in Tûr Morva and this latest betrayal is nothing but a nightmare.

But you remember Isengard. Baldgar and Acca and Morflak. Lothrandir.

There are clothes and armor set out beside the stones. They look to be scavenged from the rangers’ spares, and not all of it fits, but you are beyond grateful to be able to rid yourself of the grey rags from Isengard. A few of the rune-shales are still intact, and you add them to the many pockets of your new gear. There is little sense in wasting ready-made runes.

Not all marks of your imprisonment within the Ring of Isengard are as easily discarded. You have many new scars in many places, and you have grown too thin. Your hair is longer than it was, but that at least is easy enough to remedy. 

Corunir enters the tent as you finish sawing off the longest parts with a dagger you found in one of the boots. You did not see him when you returned to the camp, but there was little you truly did see that night. He embraces you gently, as if you might break, and you answer it with fierceness. You can feel his laugh, creaky and disused, in your chest pressed to his. He pulls away and offers to help with your hair.

“You look like a proper Dúnadan,” he says as he evens out the hackjob you made of your hair. You don’t think the comment should make you feel so warm, but there is no denying that it does. There is safety to be found in the company of your friends that you have not known in far too long.

Saeradan startles the first time he hears you curse in the Black Tongue, a habit you acquired in the Ring of Isengard. You give him a grim smile and he asks no questions.

Baldgar is even later in waking than you, but when he rouses you tell your tale to Saeradan and Corunir and Prince Théodred, and the next day you set out for Tâl Methedras one last time. Neither you nor Baldgar are best fit for battle, but Baldgar insists that he swore an oath to aid you in your rescue, and Saeradan and Corunir take you at your word when you tell them you would follow even if they tried to leave you behind.

Théodred’s men accept their prince’s word and Baldgar’s and treat you with professional courtesy, but most of them are still strangers or nearly so. Radanir is another matter entirely. He surges to his feet, favoring his right, and squeezes you tightly enough you fear for his arms or your ribs. You answer in kind, and you sit with him through the evening, trading accounts of imprisonment, both of you convinced that the other got the worse end of the deal. Plans are made to prepare for a full assault on Tûr Morva, to be put into motion with the dawn. It feels more like two camps than one that night, with the Rohirrim staying near their prince and the Dúnedain clustered on the other side of the fire.

You heal Radanir’s leg with one of the runes you have carved into the stones Saeradan and Corunir gathered for you while you slept. All three of them are within earshot if not eyeshot all through the night, as if afraid to wander too far from each other. You can relate.

You set out the next day to wreak havoc in Tûr Morva and to recover Braigiar’s body. Radanir’s leg is hale enough to accompany you, but when you make it to the center of the city, Braigiar is not there. You trade dark looks with Radanir and ghost through the undergrowth, searching for some sign of where the Falcons could have taken him.

You find a rune carved shallowly into the base of one of the great boulders that form Tûr Morva’s natural defenses. It is a healing rune, but not the simple one you had taught much of the Grey Company. This is one of the stronger ones, one you would use in dire situations. You study it closely, and nearly miss Radanir’s bird-call summons. You make your way to his side and find him hidden in the shade of two ancient, gnarled trees, a hiding place you never would have found without guidance. Radanir is cradling Braigiar in his arms, scarcely moving even when you trip into the hidden grove. 

"He's alive," Radanir whispers. You're not sure whose attention he fears to draw- Death and the Falcons both have so far passed Braigiar by. You look and you can see the faint rise of Braigiar's chest, and hope burns bright in yours. How long has he lain here, you wonder, digging for your most powerful rune. Braigiar is pale and hot to the touch, even in the mountain air, and far too still. It will take more than a single rune, no matter how powerful, to restore his health, and much food and rest besides, but you can help him a little still. It should be enough to keep him until you and Radanir can bear him out of Tûr Morva.

The escape proves to be more complicated than expected. You were expecting to remove a body once your vengeful chaos had taken hold. You now must bring an injured friend out of an alert and functional city prepared for war. It takes long minutes to convince Radanir, but eventually he settles Braigiar across his shoulders and crouches at the edge of the hidden hollow to await your signal. You are both weakened by your imprisonment, but you have the greater talent for distraction. You set fire to the thatching of Lheu Brenin's home and to the homes of half a dozen of his champions. You turn a stone pulsing with lightning on the first to respond. Some of them might recognize your handiwork- you hope they do. They deserve to know that you have returned to them.

You steal away in the confusion, pausing only long enough to empty the contents of a discarded bucket of ox-shit all across a nearby home. Iwan's, you think. You rejoin Radanir well outside the bounds of Tûr Morva. He relaxes when he sees you, and grins at the smoke and the cries from the city. You bring Braigiar back to the forward camp, and though he has lived this long, he is still near death and it takes all your rune-skill and Radanir's herb-lore to bring him through the first night. One of the Grey Company is always with him over the next week as you sabotage the defenses you yourself built up in Tûr Morva. It is days before he wakes, and when he does it is clear something is still not right. The others believe it an effect of the fever and his brush with death, but you remember the rune in the boulder and wonder if that is the only reason. You don't question him about it until much later, on the long ride back to the scout-camp.

Braigiar is still too weak to fight, but he refuses to be left behind. Much as you wish he would stay, you understand. He stands guard at the mouth of the prison caves with Saeradan and one of Théodred's Riders while you descend into the warrens of the cave system. You are suddenly glad for your time in Khazad-dûm as you map the tunnels in your mind's eye. You find Mincham, Prestadír, and Amlan in the first set of cells, and Daervunn with Dagoras in the next. Golodir is with Calenglad farther in, and Corunir works at their locks while Radanir follows you ever deeper into the complex in search of Halbarad, Elladan, and Elrohir. You find them in the middle of their own escape. Halbarad is limping and there is fresh blood on Elrohir's clothes, but neither of them falter as you confront Lheu Brenin and his warriors on the bridge.

Rage fills you as the Brenin taunts you. He becomes the focus of all the weeks of pain and fear under Isengard and the grief in the weeks since. It is only Radanir's hand on your shoulder and the knowledge that your friends are wounded behind you that keeps you from turning the storm in your blood on the Falcons despite their overwhelming numbers. You do not turn your back on them as Radanir pulls you away and you can hardly think enough to guide your friends back to the surface. You spit the cruelest orcish curse you learned in the Ring back into the prison-caves and ignore the looks it draws from both Saeradan and Mincham. The others know the words are not friendly, but those two know exactly what you suggested they do with their poisoned spears.

Later, when you have all of the survivors safely away and their wounds tended, you retreat to the edge of the camp to keep watch on the road that leads back into Tâl Methedras. Elladan seeks you out at the crest of the hill and you try your hardest to be courteous. You want to be happy, to rejoice in the safe return of so many of your friends, but you are still so _angry_ , more so than you can ever remember being. Elladan thanks you with quiet words for your rescue, but you have few words to give him in return. He stands with you in silence for some time. 

You turn your old chisel in your hands. Some of the Grey Company's gear was recovered in the assault, your assembled rune-tools among them. Much has changed in just a few weeks. You are still wearing mostly patchwork ranger garb- and Prestadír was more than a bit confused to see you in his old boots, though he didn't seem interested in reclaiming them- and you have a different assortment of runes than you once did. Your chisel doesn't feel quite right anymore. It is still a beautiful tool and it fits its purpose admirably, but it no longer feels like an extension of yourself. You return it to your bag in favor of the iron you had taken from Isengard and refined as you could on the road. This one, like you, is angrier, and you think it fits.

"He fears you now," Elladan says. Night has fallen now and his face is cast in moonlit shadows. You think back. Even with the might of his people at his back, Lheu Brenin did not seek to stop your escape, after your confrontation. The Grey Company and their Rohirrim allies were humiliated and taunted with their powerlessness, but they were allowed to leave relatively unmolested. You are unsure if you share Elladan's view on the situation, but you cannot deny that the Brenin seemed keen to avoid direct combat.

"Perhaps," you say.

You confront Braigiar about the rune in the Tûr Morva boulder days later and he refuses to meet your eyes as he admits to stealing looks into your rune-satchel during the weeks the Grey Company spent in Tûr Morva in peace. At the time he had simply wanted a better way to help you if you were the one who fell. The Company had come to rely perhaps too heavily on your abilities, he says. He never expected to use the rune on himself- he never expected to wake after the Falcon arrow took him from behind. Radanir's cries of rage and pain had been the last thing he heard. He had crawled out of the road under cover of darkness when he finally did wake, barely managing to etch the rune you found in the boulder. It had been enough to keep him alive, but he had still lacked the strength to escape, so he crawled to the grove of trees where Radanir had found him and waited for either death or rescue. You think you should be angry with him, for searching your possessions and for ignoring all of your warnings about the runes, but you are tired and you have lost one fewer friend because of his actions, even if he sometimes sees beyond what Men should now, at twilight and dawn and in the shadow of old graves.

\---

Théodred's scout-camp is the closest thing the Grey Company has to safety in Dunland, now that the Hebog-lûth have turned. You spend a week recovering, and the Rohirrim make no secret of their growing impatience or their anxiety for their home. After speaking with them, you think they are right to worry. Rohan is weakening and her prince is painfully aware of it. 

You come across Saeradan and Halbarad among the roots of one of the great trees that stand as pillars in the Gravenwood. Their conversation stops when they hear your approach, but they forget perhaps that elven ears are keener than those of Men. They are debating their next steps. They are out of time.

"Théodred's patience has run out," you tell them, approaching. "The Rohirrim will leave at dawn in two days." The rangers' faces fall and you wish… well, you wish for many things that you know cannot be.

"We owe them," Saeradan says softly. "Without them, the Grey Company would never have left Tûr Morva."

"And I am grateful to them, and to the two of you, but still we have our own mission." Halbarad is equally quiet. Saeradan's mouth thins and you know they have had this conversation more than once. Halbarad sighs. "Regardless, less than half of our number are fit to travel. Even if a mere handful of us split off to follow Théodred, it could mean the difference between success and failure.”

They are both right. The threat of the Enemy is growing day by day, and the Dúnedain are anxious to reach Aragorn, but Théodred and his company risked much to help you and yours- and it can only help in the end to stall Saruman. Duties and obligations aside, the Grey Company is in no shape to travel, and certainly not within the next two days. “What do you think?” Saeradan asks you. “It seems we must decide quickly, now.”

We. The Grey Company. When they speak, they include you as one of them. You do not want to leave them, not when you finally have them back, but Calenglad is right when he says that you all have too many duties in this world.

“I will go with the Rohirrim. When the rest of the Grey Company is recovered, make haste to your chieftain’s side.”

Halbarad and Saeradan both watch you for a time in silence. You know they can see how this pains you even as you try to hide it. The silence swells and when it becomes too much, you leave them beneath the tree and wander the Gravenwood alone. You are quiet that night, and even Corunir and Radanir cannot draw you out. Halbarad bids you make your farewells the next day, and for most of the morning you wander among them. It is far easier to say goodbye to those you do not know as well, though by now they are all like family. A young ranger who had joined the Company with her sister and Lothrandir out of Forochel ties a braided leather cord around your wrist for luck, and another tucks an interesting feather from a bird of the Gravenwood behind your ear. You laugh and thank them and wonder if you have the strength for the harder goodbyes.

Saeradan clearly does not want you to go but understands the need as well as you. His good humor is nearly genuine and his words are nothing but encouraging and you leave him with a smile to find the others. Prestadír is full of quiet faith in your strength- and in Lothrandir’s- and he laughs to see that you are still wearing his old boots.

“The dagger is named Elenagil, for my mother,” he tells you. “No, no!” He protests when you try to return it. “She would be glad to guard you! Keep her.” His smile goes sad, and he embraces you gently. “Stay safe, my friend.”

Calenglad is distant and tired, and you worry for him. Golodir is angry, though it is directed not at you but at Lheu Brenin. You do not think he intends for his words to sting as much as they do. He assumes that this is Halbarad’s idea, and you aren’t sure whether correcting him would make things better or worse. 

You do not want to go to Rohan alone. You want to stay with the Grey Company. You want to protect them all. You want to find Lothrandir. You know that you cannot save them all even if you are here. 

You seek out Corunir. You tell him not to worry, but you both know that now more than ever worry is merited. You worry for your friends already and you have not yet left them. Corunir ruffles your hair and makes you promise not to try to cut it yourself again. Braigiar you find between the camp and the Slade of Shadows, eyes trained on something you do not see. He startles when you touch his shoulder but flashes a smile and greets you warmly. You make your way back to camp with his arm slung across your shoulders and his voice calm in your ear as he tells you in great detail of his elder sister, who had traveled in Rohan as a youth and told him many tales of the plains. You doubt much of it will be of use to you, but you do not mind.

Radanir meets you at the edge of camp. Braigiar bids you a graceful farewell and leaves. You walk with Radanir to a smooth slab of stone overlooking the approach to the scout-camp and for a time you sit in peaceful silence. “We go where we are needed,” he says, and watches you. He speaks of the future, of reunion and peace and you are not sure if you can see it so easily. You want to, desperately, but the Shadow is lengthening and you know none will come through unscarred.

You do not realize you are crying until Radanir dries your face and pulls you close. “I don’t want to leave,” you whisper. You did not weep in Isengard; you do not remember if you wept for Candaith. You wept for Andreg, alone, and you weep now for yourself and for inevitable partings. When your tears are spent, you straighten and try to smile. You fold Radanir’s hand around a single runestone with instructions to invoke its power before the next great danger and an admonition to let no one- especially Braigiar- try to recreate it. He nods solemnly and secrets it away in some pocket.

The Rohirrim are glad to hear that you will be accompanying them, and you take what comfort you can from their welcome. The camp has something like a feast that night, and the woods are bright with firelight and laughter as the two companies say their own farewells. Halbarad thanks you quietly by your fire and tells you that you will always be welcome among the Dúnedain and the Grey Company. You speak with Elladan and Elrohir in the light of Eärendil and ask them to keep watch over your own prince, if he still accompanies Aragorn when they reach him. They accept the charge solemnly and you return to the fires, where Radanir is busily carving something from a block of wood. He calls you over and after many attempts convinces you to sing for them one last time. Rangers and Rohirrim both surround the fire and call out encouragement. Drink was found somewhere, so you choose a tavern song you learned from the dwarves of the Iron Garrison. Few of the Men present understand a word of Khuzdul, but the tone is clear enough and you learned a translation alongside the original. You do not know how much of the knowledge will be retained come morning, but it truly does not matter.

You rise with the dawn and make your final preparations. The Grey Company all turn out to watch your departure and you ache. Radanir and Saeradan bring Lakewind to you, saddled and eager to ride. Radanir loops a leather thong around the saddlebow and from it dangles a distinctive wooden star, freshly carved. Théodred makes a final pass of his Riders, and before the last grey of dawn has faded you are away, riding south. You turn back only once, and see your friends along the ridgeline. Someone waves and you turn back to the road.

Baldgar rides with you for much of the first day, and as the road rolls away under the horses’ hooves you speak more easily with the other Riders. Théodred’s men are vibrant and full of life, and they grow ever more so as the Gravenwood falls away behind and the Heathfells open up ahead. There is a stark change in the Riders’ demeanour when you reach Grimbold’s camp. They straighten to a man in their saddles and adopt a more stringent discipline. The camp itself is obviously military, and far more ordered than the prince’s smaller outposts in Dunland. It is jarring, after the fluidity of the Dúnedain’s camps and the chaotic sprawl of Isengard. Your time in the Ring becomes the subject of camp rumor in the blink of an eye and you are more than once questioned by the disbelieving and the curious. 

Within an hour of your arrival you are swept into the planning and councils of the camp. Théodred is preparing a strike, and if it accomplishes nothing else it will set back Saruman’s production by days. You give as much as you can to the planning, drawing on everything you observed during your imprisonment and escape. Baldgar is there beside you. He had never been given the freedom to roam that you had, but he had had little to do besides speak with Acca and had learned much. 

You hold a strange place within the hierarchy of the camp. As a friend of Prince Théodred you are afforded a certain respect, and as the stories from Tâl Methedras and Nan Curunír spread you are becoming a larger than life figure, even for these experienced Riders. Baldgar takes his near-hero status far better than you and tells the tale of your escape many times. By the day of the planned attack, nearly every Rider in the camp has begged a training spar from you. You humor them, and they quickly learn that the only way to find victory against one who throws lightning is to strike the first blow. Some take the lesson rather poorly, but most merely laugh.

Théodred sets out from the camp in the darkness before dawn, riding against Isengard in all its might. Your thoughts turn to Lothrandir, and though you hope for it, you doubt that you will be afforded the opportunity to search inside the Ring, much less the tower of Orthanc.

The opening of the day is promising, but before you realize what is happening the tide turns. You brush against Théodred in the madness and in a brief moment of respite you rest a hand on his pauldron and invoke a powerful warding rune. He has no time to question you, and in moments you are swept apart again. You are not accustomed to engagements of this size, and you have long since lost track of the overall direction of the battle. The Rohirrim retreat in chaos and you follow. You barely made it to the gates of Isengard- a feat in itself, against these numbers, and you try not to be bitter. It is easy to do when you are fighting for your life.

You cross the Ford with Grimbold, and you feel the thin thread that connects you to the ward you placed on Théodred snap. You arrive and find the prince still on his feet, blade locked with none other than Morflak. Théodred is skilled, but on foot he has little hope against the uruk’s massive strength. You call out a challenge in the Black Tongue and follow it with an arc of lightning. It is enough to draw Morflak’s attention, and Théodred drops to one knee behind him. Morflak laughs and bears down upon you, and you have a heartbeat in which to think that this was perhaps not the wisest course. The forces of the White Hand converge on Théodred once more and Grimbold leads the charge to his prince’s side.

You are exhausted from a day of battle and you can barely avoid Morflak’s blows. You have no chance even to throw a stone at his feet so fierce are his attacks. A distant horn-call distracts you both, but you are the slower to recover and there is only Morflak’s laughter and darkness.

\---

Your eyes open in silence and a world of muted colors and sourceless light. You are in a tent and your arm is in a sling against your chest. Your body aches when you rise, but it is distant and easy to ignore. You are in Grimbold’s camp, but no living thing moves and the ground is littered with corpses. You find Théodred among them, and you bow your head. You feel a presence behind you, and when you turn Candaith is standing at the entrance to the camp.

“I think you might be asleep,” he says. His eyes move over the bodies and sorrow taints his face. You do not look away, certain he will vanish if you do. You walk with him through the camp and you wonder what manner of dream this could be. It feels different than most. Candaith stops to examine a pot hung over a heatless fire. He smiles. “This is familiar.” You look for yourself. There is a mark on the side of the pot that you recognize, from a blacksmith in Bywater. The pot itself holds a blackened sludge that is almost entirely burnt. You start to smile. “Who goes there?” Candaith calls out. Another figure in greys and greens stands at the entrance.

“Candaith?” Braigiar’s surprise is loud in the world of the dream. Your own surprise echoes his. A strange dream indeed, if dream alone this is, and not something more. The two rangers speak, and you wonder. Candaith is dead. Braigiar is not- not unless something terrible has happened in the last days. Théodred is… you do not remember. The battle at the Ford is hazy. The last you remember, Morflak stood before you and-

“Someone comes,” Candaith says. Your friends stand on either side of you as you cross the threshold of the camp.

Morflak stands before you and you do not remember him being this tall. Larger than you, yes, but not twice your height and half again as broad as you. The uruk laughs and you are frozen. The pains of your body are not so distant now, and your shoulder burns. Braigiar draws a sword and steps forward, but Candaith pulls him back. “This is not our foe.” Braigiar protests- you are one of the Grey Company, and a friend besides. Your foes are theirs. You cannot help but love him for it, but you know in the way of the dream that Candaith is right. You straighten and meet the dream-Morflak’s eyes. Braigiar sighs and steps aside, offering his sword to you. You eye first the blade and then him.

“I fight with runes,” you say. Braigiar does not smile.

“Then where are they?”

You look down. Your rune satchel is not at your waist. There are no stones in any pocket. You accept Braigiar’s sword one-handed and step forward. You have little idea how to use such a blade, much less with one arm bound. Morflak laughs again and strikes. You fight, despite the pain in your arm and the unfamiliar weight in your hand. Morflak’s blows hold a terrifying strength, but still you fight. There is the sound of a distant horn, and then the thunder of many hoofbeats. Insubstantial Riders appear from the mists of the dream and Morflak falls beneath them. They do not stop, and you cover your face by instinct.

You stand now on the shores of Evendim. Braigiar and Candaith are with you still. Candaith laughs, but the sound falls flat and you shiver. You are still holding Braigiar’s sword. You return it and draw Prestadír’s dagger, still safely in a borrowed boot. You walk together along the lake, and shades of the Grey Company appear before you. Candaith watches Golodir in sorrow, but Braigiar shakes his head.

“He has been better, now that we have left. Dunland had become too much like Angmar, I think. Haunted by memory.”

You hope that Braigiar speaks true. The next vision is of Lothrandir and your heart twists. He sits alone, bound, but he looks uncowed. It could be nothing more than hope, but you cling to it. Your drake-scale bracer, the product of your combined skills during your retreat in Sûri-kylä months before, rests on your uninjured forearm. It had been among the effects recovered from Tûr Morva. You need another hand to remove it now, but Candaith helps you and you settle it on Lothrandir’s arm. “I am sorry, my friend.” There is no sign that he can see or hear you, and within moments he fades, to be replaced by Calenglad. Braigiar has nothing to say about this vision and his face is grim. He moves as if to stop Calenglad as he vanishes beneath the waters of Nenuial, but something you cannot see arrests him. He looks around and seems to realize something.

“I fear my time with you is over. Be safe on your road, and know that you are still in our hearts.” He smiles. “If our paths should cross again, perhaps I will travel with you for a time.” Braigiar vanishes. Candaith watches the place where he had stood.

“I do not understand how he was here, but I am glad for it, I think.”

“He sees much that he should not, now. I hope it does not bring him to harm,” you say. Candaith turns back to you. “Candaith, I-”

“Do not apologize, my friend. I would give my life again without hesitation if it could be of aid to my people.” This does nothing to ease your heart as the shores of Evendim dissolve into mist around you. An unfamiliar river resolves, and before you can say goodbye Candaith is gone. The Fellowship does not see you, and you have little context for their conversation, but they at least seem to be whole. They are more tired than when you spoke with them briefly in Lórien, but that is little surprise. You can say the same of yourself.

The Fellowship does not see you, but you think that Gollum might. You cannot be sure. 

You are in a swamp with a massive sword and reeds that hem you in on all sides. There is a different feel to this than your time with the rangers. Something sharper, in a strange way that has nothing at all to do with physical sensation. You hear Nona’s voice, and the Lady Galadriel’s, and then the dream is fading and you are falling back to your body.

You wake again in a tent in Grimbold’s camp, but this time it is dark and you can hear all the sounds of the camp. Your arm is still bound against your chest and your shoulder feels as if it is aflame. Your rune-satchel is set beside the cot you have been placed on, and it is a relatively simple matter to repair bone and flesh. It feels now that the battle was the dream and that your dream was all too real. 

You are not alone in the tent. Wounded Riders fill the cots from one cloth wall to another, most of them in Théodred’s colors but some few with an unfamiliar design. You are still sore, but you are well enough to dress yourself and to tend to many of the Riders with your runestones. When you have exhausted your strength and worked through what you can of your dream alone, you leave. Some few Riders are awake still, tending to late night business or standing sentry. You find Grimbold bent over a pile of dispatches on the map table in the light of a dying lantern. His eyes are shadowed even beyond the flickering light, and you wonder when last he slept. For that matter, you wonder how long you have slept. He looks up at your approach.

“Ah! I should have known that you would make it through. How are you?” He examines you in the lantern light and frowns. You touch your shoulder idly.

“My runestones do their work well,” you say. “What of the battle?”

A full day has passed since the strike on Isengard and the battle for the Ford. Théodred lives, thanks in no small part to your ward and your attack on Morflak. Many others do not. The day had been salvaged only by the charge of Elfhelm’s Riders out of Helm’s Deep. Your collarbone had been crushed in your duel with Morflak. He had been struck down moments later by Elfhelm’s Riders and you think that should give you some measure of peace, but it does not.

“You still seem troubled, friend. What weighs on you?”

You tell Grimbold of your dream. At first he dismisses it as the result of your injury, but as you come to the end his face goes dark and his tone hostile. You flinch back at his anger, and you think that if your actions had not saved his prince you would be run out of the camp then and there. Grimbold points you west and will hear no more. You have no strength to protest, anyway.

You find your bags stacked neatly on a table and Lakewind well-tended among the pickets. The ranger-pauldron that you have worn since your escape from Isengard is with your bags, in a truly spectacular state of disrepair. It likely saved your life. Your drake-scale bracer is nowhere to be seen, and you wonder again at the realness of the dream.

You nearly make it out of camp unchallenged, but Baldgar is standing sentry by the horses and he stops you with loud and friendly words. You tell him briefly of your conversation with Grimbold, and of your dream driving you forward. His face clouds when you tell him of Grimbold’s reaction and he apologizes on the man’s behalf, but you only shrug and mount Lakewind. Baldgar sighs and presses fresh provisions on you and you take the time to regret not becoming a closer friend to him as the camp fades behind you into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arson is my favorite distraction technique
> 
> mmmm. lakewind is my horse- rep mount from the wardens of annuminas, bc the ranger thing is by no means a new thing


End file.
